


Kevin Price Needs Validation

by Demixian



Category: Book of Mormon
Genre: ArNaba, Birthday Gift Fic, Comedy, Fluff and Humor, For my amazin friend Liss, Funny, She is the Pure One, Sorta McPriceley if you wanna look at it that way, Very blatant Arnaba, cunnilungi, did i mention its FUNNY, okay never mind, tbh cunnilungi sounds so much like 'cunnilingus' so i usually just say arnaba, yeah im really going for that there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6904090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demixian/pseuds/Demixian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puns, rude names and vast amounts of witty remarks. Will Kevin Price ever get the validation for every little thing he does that he doesn't actually need but really really wants? Probably not, and maybe that's a good thing. I don't know, read the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kevin Price Needs Validation

**Author's Note:**

> For my lovely friend Liss for her birthday (which is actually in two days but see if I care). This entire fic is basically written just to help cheer her up and bring a smile to her face but it should hold up on its own. Anyway, Happy Birthday Liss!!! Oh and, uh, what else do I usually put in notes...hope you enjoy...fuck you greer...eh, whatever, it's a fanfic! Enjoy!

Elder McKinley twirls a pen between his fingers skillfully, reviewing a checklist of some sorts. Kevin tentatively knocks on the door, not too hasty to interrupt any ‘important work’ (these checklists are usually easily done in about a minute, but Elder McKinley seems to like to dawdle slightly with the checklists when it’s laundry day. Kevin can certainly sympathize — it can’t be pleasant washing several other men’s dirty skivvies). 

 

McKinley looks up, acknowledging the person at the door. “Mm?”

 

Kevin steps properly into the room now, leaning on the door frame casually.

 

“I just came to talk about something that’s been bothering me lately, uh, kind of concerning you.”

 

McKinley raises an eyebrow.

 

“Not…like _that_.”

 

“Mm.” Elder McKinley looks back down at his checklist again, continuing to twirl the pen around between his fingers.

 

Kevin glances up at the ceiling idly, examining the dangerously dangling unprotected lightbulb that swings around ominously, giving dim but also displeasing light to the small room.

 

“Anyway, I wanted to talk about yesterday, in regards to the whole…Arnoldism _debacle_ , I guess,” he begins,

 

McKinley doesn’t contribute to this, so Kevin continues.

 

“I guess I’m just sort of hurt over Elder Cunningham and you guys just kinda…deserting me right after I had that awful dream, it wasn’t really cool.”

 

“You mean like how _you_ deserted your companion along with the rest of the district _and_ their district leader who then had to deal with a hut full of hectic missionaries?” shoots McKinley, glaring at Kevin rather pointedly. Kevin recoils slightly before going in again, quite averse to the suddenly harsh tone the other man has taken on.

 

“Alright, alright,” he says, waving his hands defensively. “I guess I did sorta screw up back there. But…you guys could have at least given me a second chance.”

 

“We gave you a good couple chances, Elder Price,” McKinley contradicts him, pointing the pen in his direction. “I resent that you act like we didn’t. You just plain threw ‘em away, s’not my problem.”

 

“Well, you _are_ district leader,” Kevin mumbles in reply, rolling his eyes. “And you only gave me one chance before deciding I wasn’t worth any more.”

 

“No, we gave you two. I’m sure of it.”

 

“What was the second one?”

 

McKinley sighs, throwing his checklist on his lap and abandoning it temporarily. “Well, first off you go galavanting round the town spreading the word of *steak knives* better than the word of Christ.”

 

“That wasn’t me,” Kevin immediately interrupts.

 

McKinley waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever. Don’t think I didn’t hear about the little ego trip you took during your proselytization hours either. Word spreads quickly around a town about the size of a Breyer barn, funnily enough.”

 

“Well,” Kevin says, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I suppose you’ve got a point.”

 

“And the second — well, like I said. You left your poor companion in, uh, a ‘matrix logic trick’scenario, where he was forced to break at least one rule. That was your second chance.”

 

Kevin frowns, not satisfied at all with this.

 

“Even so, isn’t it the _Mormon policy_ to forgive and forget?”

 

“Maybe in the quaint little town of Salt Lake City, Elder, but not where I come from. In Provo, if anybody was acting out of line, we’d take ‘em out back and slap some sense back into ‘em. Of course, I’m not planning on doing _that_ to anybody here — but you get the point.”

 

Kevin certainly does get the point, but he isn’t prepared to end the conversation just yet. 

 

“Right, but…but did you all really have to just…shove me outta the way like that? I dunno it just kinda felt…mean. You seemed nice enough when I and Elder Cunningham first met you.”

 

“I’m plenty nice, Elder Price,” McKinley states. He looks momentarily amused and chuckles. “Ooh! That rhymed!”

 

It did, but this isn’t relevant. Although it does lead Kevin’s mind to wonder how rhyming words came to be. Were they an accident? Did Heavenly Father invent them to improve the monotonous tone of everyone’s voice and bring a little light to the world? Who decided what would rhyme with what? Do ‘nice’ and ‘price’ rhyme for a reason? Was it for monetary or commercial reasons? Why do ‘pleasant’ and ‘peasant’ rhyme then? They sure don’t mix all too well. Was it a peasant who created rhymes? Why is—

 

“You still awake, Elder Price?” McKinley’s voice chimes in, snapping Kevin out of his small mental digression.

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry.” Kevin shakes his head dizzily, slightly disorientated from the abrupt change of his train of thought’s route.

 

“Well, you sure are attentive, aren’t you?”

 

Kevin squints down at McKinley rather resentfully before continuing.

 

“Seeing as I did excuse myself for my own actions, I think I deserve an apology too.”

 

“Oh, do you now?” McKinley drawls, scoffing. “That’s nice.”

 

“Well?” Kevin says expectantly, crossing his arms.

 

“Price,” McKinley begins, completely dropping ‘elder’ now and instantly sounding practically sinister somehow because of it. “I got excommunicated from my own church, you’re gonna need to _really_  act the victim if you want an apology.”

 

He picks up his checklist again and resumes his labourious box-checking, wordlessly giving Kevin the signal to leave, which he does, much to his own discontent.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Your first baptism! That’s _amazing_ , Elder Price!”

 

As Kevin’s friend, this is, of course, intended to be Arnold’s way of congratulating his companion on a job well done. However, the impact of such a line is vastly diminished when the person speaking is mainly focused on where next to experimentally grope his girlfriend.

 

“Thanks, Elder Cunningham,” Kevin replies.

 

Elder Cunningham tenuously pinches the hem of Nabulungi’s skirt, glancing up at her for reassurance. She chuckles and rolls her eyes, patting Elder Cunningham on the back and batting his hand away, gesturing to Kevin, who continues to shift around uncomfortably.

 

“Oh, haha, sorry, Elder Price,” Cunningham says, giggling almost girlishly. “Just fooling around.”

 

“That’s fine.”

 

It is not fine. However, Elder Cunningham has every right to ‘fool around’ with his romantic partner should he choose to, only perhaps it would more respectful to both his friend and his girlfriend to do it somewhere less…Kevin-ful.

 

“But yeah! That’s _amazing!_  I mean, _sure_ I got like…20 baptisms with the other elders collectively but…hey! It’s a start!”

 

Nabulungi nods in agreement, smiling reassuringly at Kevin. At least somebody isn’t being passive aggressive.

 

“You seem upset, though,” she says, frowning slightly. “Is something wrong? First times are always awkward.”

 

“No, it’s not that,” Kevin replies, shaking his head and sighing. “It just seems that not _everyone_  appreciates this new achievement.”

 

“Ohhh,” Elder Cunningham and Nabulungi intone in unison, exchanging knowing looks.

 

“It’s okay, buddy,” Cunningham says, patting his companion’s hand. “Elder Church is hard to win over, I know, but once you get to know him…”

 

Kevin gives his companion a brief, exasperated glare. “I’m not referring to Elder Church, Elder Cunningham.”

 

“Ohhh,” Elder Cunningham intones again, giving another knowing look. “Now, I know Elder Neeley can be intimidating, but…”

 

It has been a little over a month since their excommunication from the church and Kevin has only gotten one baptism so far. It’s more than he had at the beginning of the mission, he supposes. That’s the positive way to look at it, in any case.

 

He mentioned his new advancement in his mission to, of course, the district leader, as he is meant to keep tabs on how many they have — even though it’s not like there’s anybody who will be expecting a report anymore. The positively charming DL’s response was:

 

“Gee, would you like a gold star on your chart?”

 

It seems that McKinley either has some sort of personal vendetta against Kevin for whatever reason or something about the excommunication has made him severely more bitchy than is usually expected of the supposed pinnacle of masculinity that a missionary is meant to be. Or maybe it’s the water.

 

Anyway, Kevin isn’t just ‘a little’ hurt about it now. He’s out for answers. He doesn’t know what he did to instill such a thorough disdain for himself in other people, but gosh darn it he will make everyone in this town like him. And if he has to drag Elder McKinley kicking and screaming into the Kevin Price Fan Club then by Heavenly Father he will do it.

 

“I’ve been reading this book lately. I found it in the library we put up this month.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“ _The Jungle Book_?”

 

“Don’t be silly, Nimble Jimbles! _The Jungle Book_ is a Disney movie!”

 

Kevin notices that the conversation has turned away from him, and once again Nabulungi and Elder Cunningham are engaged in their own dialogue. He gets up and begins to leave, totally unacknowledged (as usual).

 

As he, for whatever reason, still feels inclined to stay within earshot of his companion despite not technically having to abide by missionary rules anymore, Kevin tries not to stray too far from the mission hut. He dawdles outside for a moment, taking in the not-so fresh air and admiring the surroundings. Dust. Dust. A single tree. Dust. It’s positively _breathtaking_. The view here could practically rival that of…an Agbogbloshie landfill. Oh well, no use in complaining. It would be rather pathetic of him to suddenly change his mind about his ‘revelation’ just under a month after he vowed to stay because he ‘didn’t really like the aesthetic of the place’.

 

Just as he begins to relax and almost doze off as he is leaned against the wall, the sound of the front door opening makes Kevin jump a foot into the air and he almost trips over.

 

“Hey, uh Elder Price?” Elder Cunningham says, peering out from behind the door.

 

“Yeah?” Kevin replies, a little startled.

 

“So um…me and Nabulungi are just gonna like, write some Book of Arnold stories. We need to have total concentration though so, y’know. Maybe take a walk around the village for a little bit? Thanks, buddy!”

 

Elder Cunningham then disappears back into the mission hut without a word.

 

 

 

***

 

 

The next morning, Elder McKinley is uncharacteristically gracious towards Kevin, although the manner in which he acts this way seems somewhat disingenuous. Things like melodramatically applauding Kevin for passing the water jug at breakfast, praising him for his 'unrivaled intellect’ in a rather over-enthusiastic tone when he helps Elder Thomas with a crossword question. It all seems very suspicious, and so Kevin confronts him after lunch.

 

It being laundry day again, Elder McKinley is outside near the washing machines, loading clothes into the washer. Kevin approaches the laundry ‘room’ (a spot of land nearby the mission hut, clumsily covered by a small tarp) and, in his usual super-cool, chilled-out manner, he leans against one of the poles holding the tarp up.

 

As he and McKinley attempt to reassemble the tent after its subsequent collapse, Kevin brings up the point of conversation he had originally intended to start off with, rather than the strangled yelp that he made as he knocked the tarp down.

 

“So um, how come you’ve been so nice to me lately?” he asks, trying to sort of stab the pole back into the ground. He comes close to impaling his own foot, and he lets out a brief squeak of terror.

 

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” McKinley replies, using a different method to Kevin’s and attempting to twist a hole with the pole (ha ha) and stabilize it that way.

 

“What?”

 

“I thought you wanted to be constantly brown-nosed by your peers? And now you’re gonna take issue with that as well? Could you make up your mind, already? Gosh.”

 

Elder McKinley’s faux-friendly tone has vanished and has been replaced by his usual drawl. He has the most versatile range of tones, being able to address Kevin like a petulant child and then turning around and taking on a very camp, gentle and charismatic tone when talking to virtually anybody else. Actually, come to think of it, that’s a normal human trait. But it’s still rather remarkable, Kevin thinks.

 

“I just feel like your…uh, friendly advances don’t seem entirely…sincere?”

 

“Ooh, well, what a fancy congregation we are. Our standards are so high we only accept genuine respect, _even where it isn’t earnt_ ,” McKinley scoffs, his attempts to reinstate the pole in the ground become more and more aggressive with every sentence. “We should encrust the Book of Arnold in diamonds — or buy _actual_  golden plates, since we’re so darn _special_.”

 

Kevin stops stabbing the dry area of ground with the pole and stares at McKinley in slightly indignant disbelief. “Geez…”

 

“I told Elder Cunningham being nice was no use. You’re not even grateful when people _do_ kiss your ass,” McKinley mumbles angrily, now furiously beating the ground with his pole. He stops, catching himself. For a moment, he stands still and closes his eyes, muttering under his breath (presumably asking the Lord for forgiveness for his language or for his brutal physical assault of the ground).

 

“Wait…” Kevin begins, something clicking in his mind. “Did Elder Cunningham ask you to do this?”

 

McKinley resumes his mauling of the originally neat patch of dirt and finally manages to slide the pole into the ground and move on to the next one. “Did he _ever_. I mean, I think Elder Cunningham is amazing and all, he’s great, but boy does he ever _talk_.”

 

Kevin frowns, making a mental note to have a very stern word with his friend, should he be able to extract him from Nabulungi’s albeit very welcoming grasp for a solitary moment.

 

“I didn’t ask him to do that,” Kevin grumbles, also managing to finish planting his own pole in the ground at last.

 

McKinley applies his winning method on the second pole and then goes on to the third. Kevin panics slightly, rushing over to it in an attempt to prove his true usefulness. However, his misfortune gets the better of him and his first pole wobbles for a moment and collapses, causing the left side of the tarp to fall over the two young men.

 

“Such…elegance. Such expertise in pole-insertion. Well done.”

 

McKinley, it seems, has reverted to the ingenuous praising.

 

“Thanks,” Kevin replies through gritted teeth (save, of course, for the ‘th’ sound. Even people with a lisp need their teeth to pronounce that sound. Kevin doesn’t have a lisp, of course, he just thought this relevant to add — but this is what is called a digression). He lifts the tarp up slowly, spluttering as he feels dust fall in his mouth.

 

“Maybe you should go, Elder Price, and I can fix this — and you can go fix your poor, deflated ego. How’s that?”

 

Kevin almost gasps scandalously at the remark, but decides that this is rather too camp for his liking, and he settles for a scowl and a withering look.

 

“I was only trying to help, Gosh.” he grumbles, throwing the tarp aside. “If… _this_  hadn’t happened, and I _had_  been able to help fix the tent properly, would that have made anything better at all?”

 

McKinley sighs, picking the tarp up and assessing the mess before him briefly before replying. “Elder Price,” he begins, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes in frustration. He opens them again, forcing a marginally affable smile. “You could cure cancer, AIDs and malaria and people would still remember all the embarrassing and crappy things you did in your past. It’s just a fact of life.”

 

Kevin frowns. “But, if I cured malaria and cancer and AIDs…that would practically save the world! How could anybody care about one little thing that happened forever ago if I literally saved the world?”

 

“We’re a petty race, Elder,” McKinley replies simply, shrugging. “And there’s no changing that.”

 

Kevin frowns again, folding his arms in frustration. “So I can’t do a thing to redeem myself?”

 

Elder McKinley shrugs again. “It’ll probably take more than finding the cure for the three most fatal and incurable diseases in the world.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“Why don’t you run along now, I’ve got a lot more work to do now,” McKinley says rather pointedly, glaring at Kevin, who promptly hurries off back into the mission hut, once again with his emotional security and confidence rather damaged.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Passing the salt at dinner has never been a big deal in Kevin’s family. If you spilt some, you would just throw the fallen grains over your right shoulder and carry on like nothing happened. However, in the Ugandan mission, the rules are quite different.

 

“No, no, if you throw it over your right you go to hell because you’re throwing it in Christ’s face since he’s always your _right_  hand man, but if you throw it over your left shoulder you’re blinding Satan, so he can’t damn you to hell.”

 

“I DON’T WANNA GO TO HELL!”

 

“Calm down, it’s only salt, seriously!”

 

“THROW IT OVER YOUR RIGHT, POPTARTS! IT’S ALWAYS THE RIGHT!”

 

“BUT WHAT IF ELDER NEELEY IS TELLING THE TRUTH AND I GO TO HELL?”

 

“NOBODY IS GOING TO HELL OVER SALT, NOW SIT DOWN!”

 

Kevin quietly pokes at his food, watching the sodium chloride-related discourse go down and not bothering to contribute. It’s not like anybody would notice anyway. He hasn’t ‘earnt’ their attention yet, after all.

 

The hustle and bustle around the dinner table is greatly different to that of Kevin’s family. Usually, everyone would sit down quietly and wait for his mother to bring out the chosen casserole of the night (usually something ghastly like parsnip or aubergine. However, they sometimes got lucky and had these little garlic-season potatoes and — well, you get the point).

 

Here, it is a tremendously different story.

 

To his far right, Elder Davis and Elder Church make obscure gestures to each other that Kevin does not understand; tapping the wrist twice and passing closed fists by each other a couple of times, somehow completely understanding the other. When he had first noticed how they did this, Kevin had assumed at least one of them was deaf or hard of hearing. As it turns out, Elder Church just hates the sound of his own voice, a way Kevin has never felt about his own voice in his life.

 

To his far left, Elder Poptarts slips a two dollar bill in Elder Neeley’s direction, muttering something that Kevin does not understand. He doesn’t understand most of district nine, come to think of it.

 

Besides him, Arnold idly plucks the teeth of his plastic fork (that he doesn’t need because they do have metal utensils here, but he keeps anyway for ‘sentimental reasons’ that nobody is quite sure of). It really annoys Kevin, actually, but no man should come in the way of another man and his fork, so he decides to just ignore the sound.

 

Directly opposite to him is their district leader and cook for the night, who is also a part-time destroyer of fragile egos, Elder McKinley. He looks tired and quite weary. His hair is parted to the right instead of the left as usual, a clear sign of the devil’s presence, as Mr. Price always says.

 

It must be hard, Kevin admits, to be a district leader. Authorizing so many elders entering and leaving the area, managing the slowly dwindling funds, being needlessly heartless towards poor unfortunate victims of the unforgiving bitch that is karma — okay, perhaps Kevin has made his point.

 

“Could you serve me some more potatoes, Elder Thomas?” Elder McKinley asks.

 

“Of course!” Elder Thomas replies. “More potatoes for the Irishman!”

 

McKinley sighs so deeply and with such exasperation, it’s a surprise that he doesn’t lie his head down on the table and fall asleep. “For the last time, Elder, my name is Scottish, not Irish.”

 

Kevin continues to morosely pick at his food, not eating any of it.

 

“Elder Price, could you pass the water?”

 

He looks up swiftly to see Elder McKinley, his eyes trained on Kevin expectantly.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Could you pass the water?”

 

Kevin squints and sits up straight. “No. I don’t think you’ve _earnt_ it.”

 

McKinley squints back, scowling. “Could you pass the water,  _please_?”

 

Kevin muses on this for a moment under the false pretense of ‘thinking about it’, even though he is already sure of his answer. “No.”

 

McKinley rolls his eyes and turns to Elder Cunningham. “Arnold, could you pass the water, please? I’m dying over here.”

 

“No!” comes a different voice (not Kevin, although as the voice belongs to an equally white and American 19-year-old person it could be mistaken as such).

 

Elder Poptarts slams his hands on the table, throwing his napkin to the side. “No! I’m so sick of this snippy behavior. You guys are all big jerks to each other and it’s pissing me off!”

 

The table collectively gasps. Elder Poptarts -- nor anyone in district nine, for that matter -- has ever asserted themselves in such a loud and boisterous way.

 

“Calm down, Poptarts, please, it was only wa—“

 

“It is _not_  just water and you know it, Elder McKinley! It’s never ‘just’ anything! This is all about a dumb, trivial, petty problem that you two have with each other and I am sick of it!”

 

He stamps his foot against the floor so loudly that all the men seated around the dinner table jump slightly in shock.

 

Poptarts points at Elder McKinley with an accusing index finger. “Elder McKinley! I know that you’re still sore about Elder Price running away on his second day, but there’s no need to be a sarcastic, petulant diva about it! Now, you apologize to Elder Price for being a li’l bitch right this second!”

 

McKinley sighs resignedly once again. “Fine, I— what!?”

 

“Apologize for being a li’l bitch!”

 

Elder McKinley stares at Poptarts in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. “…A _what_?”

 

“You know what I said! Now, apologize!”

 

“Um, alright…” Elder McKinley replies warily, frowning slightly. He turns back around and faces Kevin, who raises an eyebrow smugly and folds his arms.

 

“Elder Price, I’m sorry.”

 

“Sorry for what?” Elder Poptarts asks, raising an eyebrow as well.

 

McKinley sighs, grimacing and gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry for being…a little bitch.”

 

Kevin smirks, his heart filling with such wondrously smug satisfaction that he could cry — but he doesn’t, because he’s a traditionally masculine, grown man and that’d be weird

 

Poptarts looks happy as well, but not yet satisfied. Oh no. Oh dear.

 

He turns to Kevin now. “Now, Elder Price, _you_  apologize for being a punk-ass whiner.”

 

Kevin gasps, positively scandalized. “ _What!?_ ”

 

“You heard me!”

 

“I…” Kevin begins, unable to bring himself to commit slander against himself, something he has never even dreamed he would be forced to do.

 

“Well, Elder Price?” Elder Poptarts asks, leaning in expectantly. Kevin glances at McKinley, who is still rather uncomfortable from having had to refer to himself as a crude name but certainly rather enjoying the sound of Kevin’s one.

 

Kevin seethes.

 

“I’m sorry…” Kevin says, his teeth gritted enough to shatter any minute. “For being…a… _punk-ass whiner_.”

 

“Good,” Elder Poptarts says, finally looking satisfied, _thank goodness_. “And no more of this bitchy back-and-forth, m’kay?”

 

“M’kay…” Kevin and McKinley echo sourly in unison with a tone similar to that of delinquent schoolboys.

 

Elder Poptarts sits down again, crossing his arms and shutting his eyes relaxedly, resting against his chair and grinning.

 

Elder Neeley scowls, handing Poptarts four dollars.

 

Dinner continues smoothly for the most part after that. Kevin stomachs the incredibly salty potatoes and Elder McKinley passes the water jug with a — for once, genuine — smile.

 

 

***

 

 

 

The next day, McKinley hands Kevin his clean clothes back and Kevin notices a little piece of paper tucked in the shirt pocket. He smiles — how sweet of him. A true apology through letter. He shall have to return the favor.

 

Kevin takes out the paper and unfolds it, reading the note. It reads:

 

_“I used your pants to clean the inside of the washing machine and I can’t get the smell of oil and sweat out — hope you don’t mind. Signed, Li’l Bitch.”_

**Author's Note:**

> And so began the start of a civil war amongst the elders of district nine, one against seven.


End file.
